


Melancholy in Change

by LtTanyaBoone



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Gen, suicide of a patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtTanyaBoone/pseuds/LtTanyaBoone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU) After she leaves the order, Sister Bernadette is forced to find out who exactly "Shelagh Mannion" is, now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melancholy in Change

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU from when Shelagh signs the papers to leave the Order. I would have very much liked for the show to explore her character being forced to figure out who she is now. It seemed to me like she moved from being a nun to being a wife (or engaged) rather quickly and I'd have preferred for her to be able to find herself first before taking such a huge step.

 

 

**warnings:** suicide of a patient

 

 

> _All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another._
> 
> \- Anatole France
> 
>  

 

The pen is strangely cool in her hand as she takes it, skimming the document before she puts the tip upon the line and signs her name.

She can feel Sister Julienne’s eyes on her as she places the writing instrument down and goes to remove her ring. It’s so strange. She hadn’t wanted to wear her habit any more, after deciding that she was going to have to leave the order. Yet it hadn’t, for one second, felt strange wearing the ring, perhaps even more symbolic of the vow she had taken all those years ago, in what feels like another lifetime. She’d been so young then, so naive. The world had been this strange place that was still recovering from the atrocities of a war that had burned itself the memory of this country’s people. She’d prayed, then, and during the war. For God to have mercy, for Him to spare the innocent bystanders. For Him to end this bloodshed. And later, for Him to have mercy again. To heal the wounded bodies and scarred souls left by trenches and guns and planes and bombs.

Her fingers are trembling as she places the ring down on the signed paper. She draws a slow breath and blinks.

“You are more than welcome to stay at Nonnatus,” Sister Julienne’s voice interrupts her thoughts. She looks at her, slowly raises her eyes. Her mouth opens, but she isn’t sure what she is supposed to say. She should decline. This is her choice, she has chosen to leave the order. Nonnatus is no longer her home, her signature just made sure of that.

But she has no other home. Not in London, at least. She’s always lived with the Order, since taking her vows. She has no money, except for what she had when she took her vows all those years ago. Money she signed over to the Order that will now be returned to her.

“As long as you wish to. As long as you need to, you will have a home with us,” Sister Julienne adds, tilting her head slightly. “Take your time, Shelagh. There is no need to make any decisions right now.”

“Could I,” she starts and has to clear her throat before she can continue on, “could I, have a room? For a few nights. Until I get a place of my own…” she trails off, looking away, suddenly feeling ashamed.

“Of course.”

Sister Julienne’s voice is soft and kind and she hears her shift, her fingers brushing against hers. She quickly pulls her hand back, puts it in her lap to wring its fingers. The nun lets out a soft sigh.

“Very well,” she mutters and pushes back her chair. Shelagh finds herself looking up in surprise, sudden fear gripping her. Fear that this will get her thrown out after all, that Sister Julienne will not take her in. She could refuse, of course. Nonnatus is home to the nuns and the nurses working for the community and Shelagh is neither, not any more.

“I assume you will not wish to sleep in your old room?”

She slowly shakes her head at the question.

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she answers and watches Sister Julienne nod, a sad smile playing on her lips.

“The one at the end of the hall is vacant. I will send someone up with fresh sheets,” she tells her and Shelagh nods.

“Thank you, Sister,” she mutters and stands, hesitating. She pulled her hand back moments ago, but now she feels like she would like one of those gentle squeezes that have, in the past, provided her with so much comfort. She forces herself to give Sister Julienne a smile and then leaves her office, retreating on strangely loud steps. She is not used to these shoes any more, isn’t used to her heels making sounds as she walks the hallways of Nonnatus House.

 

* * *

 

There’s a soft knock on the door and she looks up from the bedsheet she is wrestling with.

“Yes?” she calls and watches as the door opens and Jenny steps in, holding a plate as a sort of peace offering.

“I’m frightfully sorry, but dinner has been sort of cancelled, Sis-” she starts but cuts herself off as she closes her eyes. It suddenly hits her that none of the nurses know her actual name, the one she’d been given by her parents. They only know her as Sister Bernadette, and Sister Julienne surely had not wanted to divulge that information, if she’d even thought of it.

“Shelagh, please,” Shelagh tells the young nurse and lets go of the sheet. “Thank you. This is very kind,” she mutters as she accepts the plate. There’s bread, and some cold cuts, and a few apple slices.

“You’re more than welcome,” Jenny smiles and walks over to finish putting on the bedsheet. When she smoothes it out, Shelagh has already devoured half her dinner. She hadn’t felt all that hungry earlier, certainly not enough to go down and eat with the others. She has hidden herself in her room ever since leaving Sister Julienne’s office, avoiding the nurses, and especially avoiding the nuns. By now, they all must know that their new temporary resident is their former sister, and she hasn’t felt like facing any of them, out of fear of their reaction. Then again, perhaps they have all been occupied with the news of Chummy going into labor.

“Do you need anything else?” Jenny asks her, voice soft. Shelagh finds herself shaking her head slowly.

“No, thank you, for the food.”

“Anytime,” Jenny smiles, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. “I know things have been hectic today, but it’s good to have you back, Shelagh,” she tells her, giving Shelagh another gentle smile before she leaves and pulls the door closed behind her.

With a sigh, she sinks onto the bed and stretches out her legs. It’s strange, being back at Nonnatus, after the time she spent away from it, and how the weeks have changed her.

She feels stuck in-between two worlds. Perhaps choosing to stay here, for the meantime, did not help, but then again, she didn’t really have anywhere else to go. The thought of already moving in with Patrick wasn’t one she wanted to entertain. It would’ve been too soon, way too soon. The fact that she still needs to figure out who she is now still stands. It would not have been fair to him, or Timothy, if she’d started living with them immediately. They need to give each other some time, to adjust to the idea. And truth be told, she is just a little excited at the idea of being courted for a while. 

Slowly, she finishes the food, and then decides to return her plate downstairs. It’s then that she finds a teary-eyed Trixie waiting by the phone as Jenny talks.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, carefully touching Trixie’s arm to draw her attention. The blonde shakes her head, sniffling.

“Chummy,” she mutters and Shelagh draws back in shock, taking a painful breath.

“What can I do?” she inquires, setting down the plate to tend to more pressing matters.

It turns out that there is not much she can do, except wait, with the others, as they wait for the ambulance and then sit and wait for news on Chummy and the baby.

Strange as it seems, as they sit in the parlor together, working on the blanket squares and putting them together, she feels a sudden calm returning to her, one that had been absent all day. When she’d been a nun, she’d enjoyed the Holy Silence. It had forced herself to concentrate on her thoughts and prayers, meant that she could have a private conversation with the Lord. The silence now is similar to it, though somewhat oppressive, anxious in its undertone.

She’s just pouring everyone fresh tea when the phone rings and everyone jumps, startled from their thoughts.

“Nonnatus House, midwife speaking,” they hear Sister Julienne answer, and Shelagh feels her hand being grabbed tightly. When she turns, she finds Sister Monica Joan holding onto it with her eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. She returns the pressure and adds her own prayer as Sister Julienne hangs up and comes to deliver the news: that the baby has been born and is healthy, and Chummy is alive, but unconscious.

 

* * *

 

It takes two weeks before she feels able to return to her old job. Two weeks of a lot of introspection, and prayer, and thinking, by herself and in silence with Sister Julienne.

She’s not entirely sure if she is completely ready for it, but she does know that if she stays at Nonnatus for one more day, she is going to lose her mind. She still struggles with the times when nurses and nuns are mingling. During mealtimes, especially. Oftentimes, she finds herself unable to sit at the table with the others, her throat constricting and rendering her unable to swallow. So she has taken on skipping meals, staying in the chapel, where she knows no one dare disturb her to call her to the table. When the nuns start filtering in is when she rises and excuses herself to the kitchen to make herself something for dinner, finding that without the bristling of Sister Evangelina right next to her, she can actually manage to eat sitting at the table.

Sister Julienne seems confident in her ability to return to work and allows it, allows her to put on a nurse’s uniform for the first time in so many years. It fits well, her and Cynthia having spend what feels like hours in the uniform closet to find the right sizes for everything. But when she catches her reflection in the mirror, Shelagh’s breath catches and she has to stop and simply stare at this person, this stranger looking back at her for a moment before she draws a deep breath and leaves her room to meet the others and get her assignment for today.

“-don’t understand-”

Trixie’s voice carries down the hall and Shelagh finds herself closing her eyes, her hand going up to touch the necklace resting against her collarbone, the crucifix surprisingly cool to her touch. It had once belonged to her grandmother, having been handed to her after her mother’s death. The first time she put it on since having taken her vows felt strange and she kept fiddling with the unfamiliar weight resting against her collarbone. Now, within the two weeks she had been wearing it, it had already become an anchor, a touchstone to ground her and provide some much-needed calm.

“I am sure there are many things in this world that do not get into that pretty head of yours.”

Sister Evangelina’s stern voice manages to put a smile on her lips and Shelagh lets go of the pendant, squares her shoulders and continues into the room.

“Good morning,” she greets the other nurses, feeling her courage falter at the look she gets from Sister Evangelina. The older woman knits her brows as she sees her in her new uniform and opens her mouth, no doubt a sharp comment on her lips. But Jenny clears her throat and Sister Evangelina blinks, almost startled.

“Very well. Nurse Franklin, you’re on rounds,” she begins handing out the assignments for the day, and Shelagh finds that she is assigned to go out with Jenny Lee. Normally, she would protest at the inference. She is a fully trained nurse, she is more than capable of working by herself. But she has always walked these streets as a nun, all of their patients know her as Sister Bernadette. Truth be told, half the time she finds herself wanting to introduce herself as such on the phone. It certainly does not help that she still lives at Nonnatus, even a few weeks after having left the Order.

But it is familiar, even as the world around the house changes, even as the inhabitants of it do the same. Shelagh knows the walls of this house, knows every step, nook and cranny. Knows how to get the chimney to draw properly, knows where the cake is hidden in the kitchen. It is familiar, and she sincerely hopes that this familiarity will help her figure out who she is, now that she no longer is Sister Bernadette. Shelagh Mannion didn’t exist for almost ten years, she’d buried her, beneath the habit and her vows. Now she is free and she feels as insecure as a newborn being thrust into this strange world.

Jenny was a good choice, Shelagh has to admit. The brunette is calm and talks when she feels like it, but when Shelagh fails to reply to her attempts at small talk, she stops and only gives her relevant facts about their patients. There are a few new expectant mothers in Poplar, some of which Shelagh has met before, some of which she hasn’t. The ones that used to know her as Sister Bernadette seem surprised, some downright shocked, to see her out of her habit and in a nurse’s uniform. But it feels good, to keep treating them. They still trust her professional opinion as a midwife. The children certainly don’t seem to mind seeing her like this now. There are a few that comment on the color of her hair, putting a smile on her face. One of the babies manages to tangle its fingers in it and pulls free a strand, leaving her to return to Nonnatus slightly dishevelled. It’s a warm day, the sun is out and when she has put her bicycle away, Shelagh turns her face into the light, closes her eyes and draws a deep breath.

Jenny’s hand on her shoulder gives a soft squeeze and Shelagh turns to smile at her, reassure her she is okay. But the other woman is smiling, too, and nods in the direction of the street before she pulls away and climbs the steps of the house.

Patrick is looking a tad sheepish as he approaches, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“I wanted to see how your first day went,” he tells her, holding out the flowers to her. She finds herself shaking her head as she accepts them but cannot resist and leans in to inhale their scent. They look slightly crushed, as if-

“Tim sat on them. I had them on the passenger seat when he got in the car-” he mumbles and she finds herself laughing. That does sound like them.

“They are wonderful,” she tells him, hesitating. “Would you like to come inside?” she asks and watches as his eyes travel up the stairs of Nonnatus House.

“Perhaps I could wait outside, and you could get changed, and we might find a nice place for dinner?” he offers instead.

“Patrick…” she starts, her brows furrowing. He has proposed to her. She saw the ring. A beautiful piece, and she had wanted nothing more than to say yes, to accept and get married in an instant. But she had told him not yet, instead. Deep down, she knows it was the right choice. She has to find herself again, first, before she can be his wife, before she can be Timothy’s mother. She feels like she is on shifting ground with herself, there is so much she still has to learn. How to be by herself, to be independent, to manage her own life. How on earth could she manage a family when she cannot even find an apartment for herself?

“I just want to talk to you. Please,” he pleads, looking so sincere that she finds herself wishing that things could be easier.

“Not tonight,” she tells him, almost changing her mind when she sees his face fall. “I promised Sister Monica Joan I would help her with her handicraft tonight. But tomorrow…” she trails off and his face lights up in a joyful grin that makes him look so much younger. She feels him take her hand and lift it so he can press a kiss to it. It makes her blush, though perhaps that is more her desire for an actual kiss than the sweet gesture.

“Tomorrow,” he tells her, reaching out to stroke her cheek with a gentle caress.

“Shelagh!”

Trixie calls her as she comes pounding down the stairs. “Oh, hello Doctor,” she greets Patrick and Shelagh feels her face grow even hotter as he withdraws his hand.

“Sister Monica Joan is insisting that she make some tea. I am not entirely sure-”

“I will be right there,” Shelagh tells the other woman. Trixie shuts up and raises an eyebrow at her, lips twitching into a knowing grin before she nods and walks back up the stairs.

They are terrible at goodbyes, and Shelagh fears it is something that may persist over the course of their relationship. Patrick tells her to have fun and she tells him to give her love to Timothy and after another minute of awkward silence, she finally manages to turn around and walk up the stairs to Nonnatus House. Walks to an evening with the nuns, something she thoughts she had left behind when she’d left the Order.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, she reaches out and touches his shoulder.

Patrick jumps and whirls around before he recognizes her. Then his demeanor changes, his shoulders slump forward and he leans against the counter, the cigarette in his hand trembling as he raises it to his mouth to take a drag.

There are no words. She doesn’t have any, doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps she lost her ability for comforting words when she handed in her habit and took the ring off her finger.

The house is silent. Nonnatus is holding its breath. The Great Silence began about ten minutes ago, but even before there had been very little conversation, each person living under its roof lost in their own, dark thoughts.

Some days, it seems as if the miracles are never going to end. As if God is with each and every one of them as they work. He breathes life in babes and provides strength to new mothers and gives love as the community grows.

And then there are days when it seems as if the world is such a cruel and cold place, absent of hope, or love, filled only with a bleak, cold future.

They lost two babies today. One three week old, tiny boy, who did not breathe when Trixie made her rounds. And another, a little girl that would not scream when she was brought into this world. She tried, Shelagh tried to encourage her to cling to this life, but it had been to no avail. Her blue face would not turn pink, she wouldn’t fill the room with her cries.

It had only been after her return to Nonnatus that she’d learned of the mother who had hemorrhaged at the Maternity Home. She knows Patrick tried everything he could, but he hadn’t been able to save her.

He looks so lost, standing there in the kitchen. Slowly, she reaches out and takes the cigarette from his fingers. His eyebrows raise in surprise when she does not take a drag but puts it out and then steps even closer, her arms wrapping around his waist as she rests her cheek against his shirt.

He smells of cigarettes and antiseptic, she finds as she inhales deeply. Feels him wrap his arms around her and pull her close before she feels him press a kiss to the crown of her head.

“I never want to lose you.”

His voice is low, but she can still hear the tears in it. Shocked, she shifts, looks up at him in surprise and confusion.

“When I went to talk to Mister Johnson, all I could think about was how much I love you. I know it is selfish, and horrible, but if anything happened to you-”

“Patrick,” she interrupts him, running her hands up and down his back in a gentle caress, “I am here.”

“And for months, you weren’t,” he reminds her, swallowing thickly. She knits her brows, unsure of what to say. She hasn’t forgotten. Even if she wanted to, her body won’t let her, not for some time at least. She still feels the shortness of breath when she jogs up a flight of stairs. Still feels how easily she tires, how much she needs regular hours of sleep. Sister Julienne understands and does not send her out in the middle of the night, unless it is an emergency, yet it is a reminder of what she went through these past months. What her body had to recover from, is still recovering from.

“I am back, now. And I feel perfectly fine,” she tells him, hoping that she will be forgiven for the white lie.

Patrick stares at her before his hold tightens and he pulls her even closer, almost crushing her against him.

“I love you,” he whispers softly and she feels herself beginning to relax.

“I love you, too,” she replies, running her hands over his sides.

The sound of someone clearing their throat and a soft knocking against the doorframe makes them part, though Patrick lets go of her without hurry. When she turns, she finds Cynthia there with a note in her hand.

“I’m sorry, that was Susan Coral. Her daughter’s gone into labor. Since she’s one of your patients, I wanted to see if you felt up to it, or if you want me to go?”

Shelagh shakes her head and reaches up to brush her hair behind her ear. She didn’t even hear the phone ring.

“We’ll go together, if that is alright with you?” she asks and finds Cynthia nodding with a knowing smile. They’ve all lost children, and each of them deals with it differently, but the sight of a healthy newborn seems just like what Shelagh needs right now. Antonia is young, it’s her first child, there is no indication of anything being wrong, but the labor may be long and after the day she has had, Shelagh knows she won’t be able to manage on her own for hours.

“I’ll get the bags,” Cynthia tells her and steps away, leaving her and Patrick to say their goodbyes. This time, he kisses her, gently, softly. It’s the first proper kiss they share at Nonnatus House, and Shelagh hopes it won’t be the last.

 

* * *

 

Her lungs ache as she draws a deep breath and closes her eyes, saying a silent prayer.

“It’s never really over, is it?” she asks. When she opens her eyes and turns her head, she finds Sister Evangelina staring at the altar, seemingly miles away with her thoughts.

“I am afraid not,” the older woman finally answers. Shelagh slumps slightly and shakes her head.

“I used to think, when the bombs would finally stop falling, it would be over. I prayed for that, for years,” she mutters and shakes her head again at the young, naive woman she was back then. “But then they did, they did stop, and it felt like the world held its breath. I remember the celebrations, the joy, the freedom we felt then… only to realize that nothing was over when we woke. There were so many soldiers returning, so many shattered souls…” Shelagh trails off, swallowing thickly at the memory of the man that took his life a few hours ago. Her patient, she’d been to see him countless of times, watched him slowly deteriorate, his mental instability growing until she grew afraid of what he might do and could no longer justify turning somewhat of a blind eye.

“I envy the children today,” Sister Evangelina says, surprising her. Shelagh turns her head and regards her former sister. Watches as the nun tilts her head slightly before watching her. “They are born into a world with so many possibilities. Born in a time of peace, of rebuilding. There is so much hope there.”

The Scot swallows, hesitating.

“I’m not sure if our parents did not feel the same way when we were born,” she allows.

“Perhaps they did,” Sister Evangelina responds, thinking. “Perhaps that is necessary, for us to keep living. The thought that the future will be better. That the next generation will have the lives we dreamed of.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know what to say, except that maybe, Sister Evangelina is right. It has been a long time since they sat in the chapel like this, Shelagh thinks. They have been respectfully avoiding each other, it seems, and it is true, somewhat, at least where Shelagh is concerned. She misses the time they used to spend together, when she was still with the order, and she’d always enjoyed conversations with the older woman, despite their differences of opinion on a lot of topics. Yet now she finds herself withdrawing, afraid of what Sister Evangelina thinks of her, afraid of her judgment. Afraid that her actions have ruined the companionship between them.

“I so longed for peace,” Sister Evangelina whispers and Shelagh watches her, surprised to see tears brimming in the other woman’s eyes. “Those terrible years, during the war, there was not a single day when we would not pray for peace to return. We stopped, after our country was no longer at war. It took me some time to realize that perhaps we should not have. There were no more bombs, surely, but the marks they had left on those that returned, on those that survived… I am not sure all of them will find peace while they are still alive, Shelagh.”

It’s still strange to hear her name coming from Sister Evangelina. Strange to be called Shelagh by her, not Sister Bernadette, not Nurse Mannion.

She draws a shaky breath, unable to prevent tears from forming in her own eyes.

“You have never called me that, before,” she mutters, quickly casting her eyes down when Sister Evangelina turns her head to stare at her in shock.

“I’m sure I must have…” she starts arguing but then trails off as Shelagh closes her eyes, clenches them shut to prevent the tears from spilling.

“There now,” the nun mutters and Shelagh feels her wrap an arm around her. Her body begins to shake with sobs and she turns her head into Sister Evangelina’s habit, the fabric rough against the soft skin of her face.

“I’m sorry.”

Shelagh takes a surprised breath, her heart beating frantically. She can count on one hand the number of times she’s ever heard Sister Evangelina apologize for something.

“If my actions made you think I did not love you…” she trails off and Shelagh sniffles, slowly withdrawing from the embrace. Sister Evangelina holds out a handkerchief to her and she takes it, blowing her nose. When she looks at the older woman again, they both cannot help but burst into giggles at the absurdity of the situation. They are grown women, for Heaven’s sake. They should be able to talk to each other, should be able to share what they’re feeling with each other.

“It is just, you seem so, different, now,” Sister Evangelina continues, brows furrowing.

“Different?”

“Happier,” she clarifies, continuing on. “And I cannot help but wonder if there’d been something that might have been done sooner. Something we could have done, I could have done… I saw you struggling, yet I didn’t say anything. I didn’t offer a shoulder, or my ears-”

“I would not have been able to accept them,” Shelagh interrupts her, wiping at the tear tracks on her cheeks as she shakes her head. “The truth is, I had hardly been able to speak to Sister Julienne, because I did not know what was ailing me. All I knew was that I was deeply unhappy, yet I could not think of a reason why. Dared not, perhaps, allow my thoughts to go in  the direction they would have needed to, to come up with an answer.”

Sister Evangelina takes a deep breath as she watches her, searches Shelagh’s face.

“It is your path,” she finally says, making Shelagh look at her in surprise. “I may not understand His intentions, but I can see you. I see the changes in you, how much easier it is for you to smile, how you are this, beacon of happiness in this house-”

“Sister-” Shelagh starts to protest, but the other woman quickly holds up her hand.

“I lost you as a sister. I do not wish to also lose you as a friend.”

She swallows hard at the words and quickly shakes her head, reaching out to grasp Sister Evangelina’s hands.

“You won’t,” she promises, giving the nun’s hands a hard squeeze.

 

* * *

 

The shade of the drapes is off and doesn’t match the armchair. It bothers her. But the rational part of Shelagh reminds her that she will probably not be living here for that long. It’s merely a step on the way to becoming Patrick’s wife: moving out of Nonnatus house and proving to herself that she is capable of living on her own. Of managing her own life without the support of the Order.

Chummy and Peter are still looking for a place for themselves, too, but most of the apartments are way too small for two people, let alone a married couple with a child. Though Chummy was wonderfully thoughtful and noted down one of the one-bedrooms and gave her the address so that Shelagh might have a look at it herself and see if it mightn’t suit her.

It’s small, tiny, even. But so is she. And she is not looking for a place to entertain, just somewhere to sleep. She has been spending a lot of time at Patrick’s place, with him and Timothy, only returning to Nonnatus to get some sleep or begin her on-call shift…

“Sister Monica Joan may be able to do something about that,” Trixie remarks, motioning at the drapes with a wrinkled nose. Shelagh frowns and opens her mouth, suddenly feeling defensive of her little apartment.

“I like them,” she tells her firmly, ignoring how the blonde’s eyebrows rise up. “They keep the light out perfectly when I have to catch some sleep during the day,” she adds.

“Black-out curtains do, too. And they are equally as hideous,” Trixie mutters, her voice low enough to tell Shelagh she does not need to reply to it.

“There you go,” Sister Evangelina says as she hands over a rectangular box before turning around and snapping at Fred to get his behind moving with that shelf.

“What’s this?” Shelagh asks and sets it down to undo the ribbon. Or rather, the medical bandage used in place of one. She’s suddenly aware of Jenny, Chummy, Trixie and Cynthia watching her intently as she opens the lid, revealing-

“Oh my…” she breathes, carefully pulling out the quilt. It’s handmade, obviously, judging from the slightly off shapes of the rectangles making up the blanket.

“We thought you could use something to keep you warm at night,” Cynthia softly says and Shelagh has to blink quickly against the tears welling up in her eyes. She recognizes Sister Monica Joan’s neat work, Trixie’s tight knitting, Jenny Lee’s attempts at managing straight rows, Cynthia’s controlled work, Sister Evangelina’s crooked corners, and Sister Julienne’s elaborate patterns as well as Chummy’s attempts to put all of the pieces together neatly so the blanket they make up looks at least mostly straight.

“Thank you so much,” she whispers and hurries over to Sister Evangelina, who, despite her best attempts at seeming disinterested and occupied with Fred’s handymanship, accepts her hug and wraps her arms around Shelagh.

“There, there,” she mutters, patting her on the back, “don’t start the waterworks, ‘cause I’m all out of handkerchiefs,” she adds under her breath, managing to draw a teary laugh from Shelagh.

Hours later, when her friends have left and she is finally alone at her new place, she curls up in the armchair and wraps the blanket around herself tightly to ward off the loneliness. When she closes her eyes, it almost feels like she is back in the sitting room at Nonnatus House, watching the nuns work on their handicrafts.

 

* * *

 

She has never been anyone’s mother. Has not thought she would ever be, not for years. It was something she gave up when she took her vows, the opportunity to have children of her own one day. As a midwife, she has helped so many babies into the world, yet she always knew that they were not hers, that this was an experience she would not have from the other perspective.

Yet she feels so strongly about Timothy that at times she almost forgets that he is not her son. At least not yet, she and Patrick are not married yet, they are not even properly engaged. And in a way, Timothy will always be someone else’s son. He had a mother, a wonderful mother that passed away all too soon, leaving Patrick heartbroken.

Her father never re-married, after her own mother passed away. She doesn’t even want to imagine what she would have done to any woman who would have presumed to take her mother’s place. But Timothy is not like this with her, at all. He seems to genuinely like her, and he did ask her to please marry his father. He does not reject her but wants her in his father’s life, and Shelagh does think that he likes her, too. And she cares for him so deeply that she has to remind herself of her place, sometimes.

And then sometimes, other people do the reminding for her. Like the people at the hospital she brings him to, when she recoils at being called his mother and tells them she is not and then is told to leave the room. She is a nurse, she is a midwife, and this boy, helpless and struggling to breathe, it feels like he is her son, she loves him so deeply. And it cuts her even deeper to be forced to stand outside the room and watch the doctors tend to him, to know that he is in there, fighting, probably scared out of his mind, and all by himself, no familiar face around, no one he knows to calm him.

She was terrified when she found him, all weak and unable to move. The moments she’d been forced from his side to call an ambulance had been torture to her, the ride in the vehicle had her holding onto Tim the entire ride, telling him it was going to be okay, he was going to get help soon.

She cries when she sees Patrick and apologises profoundly and is forced to watch as he rushes through the doors to be with his son. She wishes she could be there right beside him, could hold his hand and give him strength and be there as Timothy fights to stay alive, a machine breathing for him.

She stumbles down the streets, slowly making her way to the emergency shelter. The soft voices of the nuns singing fill her ears as she steps inside and she follows the sound.

In the time since she has returned to Nonnatus as a nurse, after renouncing her vows, she has listened to their plainsong many times, but never felt like it was her place to join them. But now her feet carry her into the room, her mouth opens, and the familiar words fall from her lips as her voice trembles. She steps between Sister Julienne and Sister Monica Joan and slowly feels her aching, racing heart begin to calm down.

Sister Julienne’s hand brushes against hers and Shelagh takes it, squeezes it. Allows herself to draw strength from the other woman, draws strength from her seemingly unwavering faith. As a former nun, Shelagh knows that each and every one of them struggles sometimes, questions their own faith and God’s plans and His intentions, but right now, she needs to be able to believe. Needs to believe that whatever happens, He is watching over them, that He is watching over Timothy and will see that the boy and his father are not alone.

The next day finds her at Timothy’s bedside, the boy still unconscious, still unable to breathe by himself. Patrick sits and stares straight ahead. She doesn’t even wish to think of the memories currently assaulting him, the horrible possibilities that are taking hold in his brain. Instead of saying something, she merely runs her fingers through Tim’s soft hair, attempting to let him know they are there, attempting to soothe herself with the gesture.

She misses Tim slowly blinking his eyes open, lost in her own thoughts. Yet there is no mistaking the whisper that comes from the boy, though it does not make any sense to her.

“Brylcream?” she repeats, confused. Patrick sits up sharply, his eyes shining with hope.

“Fetch the nurse,” he tells her, reaching out to stroke his son’s head as she rises and races to find the woman in charge to tell her Timothy has woken up, tears of relief pooling in her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Her hands are steady as they move over the woman’s belly, checking the position the baby is in.

“You ever regret it?” she asks. Shelagh frowns as she withdraws her hands, grabbing the chart to make notes in it.

“Regret what?” she replies, only half-concentrating on the conversation.

“You know, giving it up. Being a nun.”

At that, Shelagh looks up in surprise. She watches the other woman, searches her face. She’s young, first time mom, second pregnancy- _Oh_.

“No,” she shakes her head slowly, offering a reassuring smile. “I don’t regret either, to be honest,” she elaborates, berating herself in her head. She should have remembered the name. Should have tried to be more comforting even when she hadn’t. Mary is nineteen and she has gotten married, between the miscarriage and this pregnancy. Her hair is longer now and in curls, maybe that is why Shelagh did not recognize her immediately. Granted, it had been shortly before she had fallen ill, but still. Mary had been so distraught over losing the baby, so shaken and hopeless that she had worried greatly about her, for a week, or two, before Patrick had presented her with the chest x-ray.

Mary watches her intently, tilting her head to the side.

“I didn’t want to come here,” she confesses and looks away, a hand stroking over her naked belly carefully. “Thought it would be bad luck, kind of…” she trails of. Shelagh places the chart down and reaches out to cover her hand gently, giving it a soft squeeze and putting on another reassuring smile.

“I am glad you are here,” she tells her. Watches as Mary blinks repeatedly.

“My ma insisted. She said I was daft, that there was nothing wrong with the Clinic… I know that,” she sighs with a shake of her head, dark eyes searching Shelagh's, “but I just can’t help it. The mere thought of coming here again, it made my stomach turn…”

Trixie might offer a quip about that probably having to do more with the pregnancy, but Shelagh doesn’t. Instead, she watches her patient intently, wondering if she should offer her a transfer, ask her if she’d be more comfortable with seeing one of the other midwives. But Mary seems more relaxed now, Shelagh thinks, than when she started the exam.

“I felt something like that, when I came back to work,” she confesses, her voice low. Mary’s eyes widen in surprise and she leans back slightly.

“Really?” she asks, and Shelagh nods.

“Oh yes. But I found that, like with so many things, the first step was the hardest,” Shelagh tells her. “And you have managed that. You’re here, Mary. And we’re going to take good care of you and baby.”

Mary watches her for a few seconds, her gaze intense, before she draws a deep breath and then nods.

“Alright,” she mutters, relaxing and Shelagh starts telling her that everything seems to be in perfect order, she is gaining weight and baby is growing, just what they want to see.

As she steps from the cubicle to wash up, she sees Patrick in the kitchen and slowly makes her way over.

“You look like you have not had a lot of rest,” she says rather stupidly. Of course he has not. With Timothy slowly recovering from Polio and the amount of patients they have had to deal with lately, it’s a wonder he has not collapsed yet.

Patrick looks up and gives her a tired smile.

“I stupidly gave Tim a bell to ring if he needed something,” he tells her, his voice warm with affection. It makes Shelagh smile, the image his words conjure. Tim does not strike her as the sort of boy that would like to be tended to day and night, but both father and son have a tendency to forget things. She can just imagine him ringing for his father or calling after him just as Patrick has left his room because he has just remembered something else he needs from the kitchen or lounge.

She reaches out, resting her hand on his lower arm, gently stroking over his coat. Patrick watches her, fingers twitching briefly. She knows he wants to touch her, knows she wants him to reach out and for him to stroke her cheek just as much. But they are at work, and they cannot allow themselves such displays. Not in front of an entire room filled with waiting patients, mothers and their children.

“I could come over,” she hears herself offer and blushes instantly at her boldness. Patrick raises his eyebrows, but she plunges on. “I know you don’t have your housekeeper tonight. So why do I not go home after work to freshen up and then come over. I can make you and Timothy something for dinner that is not fish and chips and after, I can look after him for a few hours, so you can catch a break.”

“Shelagh,” he breathes, reaching out to take her hand and raise it to his lips. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks and she feels her heart melting and herself fall for him just a bit more.

“Yes,” she nods eagerly, “please let me do this.”

Still, he hesitates before he nods in agreement, but when he does, he smiles at her and takes her hand to give it a soft squeeze.

“Thank you,” he whispers and she simply smiles at him before she lets go and goes to return to the waiting patients.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, she closes the book and gets up from the bed carefully, in order to not wake the sleeping boy.

Tim stirs a little when she adjusts the blanket around him, but he does not wake, and Shelagh lets go of the breath she’s been holding and slips from the room.

She finds Patrick in the living room, reading the Lancet, though he immediately puts it down when he hears her enter.

“He’s asleep,” she tells him, feeling strangely odd. She’s calmed children before, but they were younger. She’s never read to one of Tim’s age, and him asking her to do so had been a startling surprise. He’d said that he couldn’t hold the book for long, but Shelagh had come to think that his physical limitations might not have been the only reason for him asking her to read to him. Because he had insisted on her sitting on the bed and then he had snuggled right up to her and closed his eyes as she began to read.

“Thank you,” Patrick tells her, holding his hand out to her. She slowly walks over and lets him pull her into his lap. “I’m sorry if he surprised you. I didn’t think he would ask you to read to him,” he mutters. Shelagh finds herself sighing as she shakes her head.

“No, it was alright,” she offers, frowning. Patrick’s gaze on her makes her squirm and she lets out a sigh. “Really, it was. I just, suppose I don’t know how I feel, right now,” she tells him softly. Patrick wraps an arm around her and kisses her cheek instead of offering any words or asking questions she wouldn’t know an answer to, anyway.

“He likes you. A lot,” he tells her after a while. Shelagh turns and watches him intently. “Always has, even before we told him. You’re good with him, Shelagh. Good for him.”

“It’s just,” she starts, frowning as she scrambles to find the words to describe her conflicting emotions. “He is not my son. Not yet, on paper. And in a way, he never will be. And yet I cannot help but feel…” she trails off with a shake of her head. “And it also made me worry. That, when we have children, if I might feel different about them. Or that Timothy will feel that way, and resent me for it-”

Patrick’s fingertips on her lips shut her up.

“He knows you love him,” he tells her, not removing his fingers to keep her from protesting. Though she would not dream to argue with him. She simply never dared use that word to describe her affection towards the boy, felt like it was not her place. But he is right, she does love Timothy, deeply. “And I do think that you ought to give yourself more credit than that. I know you, Shelagh, you would not dream to treat him any differently than the children we might have.”

Suddenly, she finds herself leaning back, searching his face.

“Do you want another child?” she asks, realizing that they have not talked about this before. Not like this, she never asked him outright if he desired to have children with her. After all, he already is a father, he might not be too keen on repeating the experience of a screaming baby in the house.

“Of course I do,” he immediately tells her, his eyes sincere. It makes her relax, though she has no idea how tense she had gotten upon her realization that they hadn’t discussed this before. He reaches up to stroke her cheek in a gentle caress and she closes her eyes to let out a soft sigh.

“I should go,” she tells him, voice soft. “It’s getting late.”

“Stay,” Patrick whispers. Her eyes fly open in surprise and she feels herself blushing crimson at his words.

“Patrick,” she starts, her voice slightly breathless.

“I will take the couch,” he immediately tells her. “I know we are not married yet, but I cannot stand the thought of you leaving right now.”

“What will people think?” she offers a weak protest. “And you are much too tall for this couch, your feet would dangle right over the end-”

“Shelagh,” he cuts her off and something in his voice makes her stop. She watches him and reaches up to caress his cheek, feeling the stubble against her hand.

“Alright,” she agrees. “But you will have to lend me your pajamas. I am afraid I did not bring any.”

At that, Patrick and her suddenly burst into laughter and he hugs her close, a kiss pressed to the top of her head.

She could get used to this, she thinks as she relaxes against him.

 

* * *

 

She’d been torn between keeping the wedding a small and quiet affair and wanting to celebrate the love between Patrick and her with the entire world.

Patrick lets her call the shots. It feels good, to know he is not pressing her, that all he cares about is getting married and doesn’t mind how it happens. Still, sometimes it infuriates her, that she has to decide everything by herself. And when she does snap at him when he fails to show any interest in invitations, he seems to realize how much of a strain is putting all this on her and starts to apply himself. At least, he does begin to offer his opinion on some things, though he always makes sure to tell her that it is her choice, ultimately.

It’s just, she wants to do everything right. People are talking, and they are right. She was already married once, in a way. She was a nun, and now she has turned her back on that life. That does not make her experience as a woman of the Lord less valid. It does, however, make her slightly uneasy to consider a pure white wedding dress.

They find a compromise in a creamy off-white color. The nurses help her with selecting it. It is still her choice, but it’s them to take her into town and insist on her trying on dresses until she finds one she likes. They sit, Trixie and Cynthia and Jenny and Chummy, and watch as she slowly turns around in front of them, watching her reflexion in the mirrors of the shop.

“What do you think?” Cynthia asks her, and Shelagh finds herself utterly speechless. She only tried on this one for the sake of having a wider selection. The second dress fit her well, it looked nice and the price was well within her range, too. However, the girls would not allow her to settle, and insisted she at least look at some more dresses. Hence how she came to put on this one. And suddenly, Shelagh finds herself giddy with joy.

“You look absolutely marvelous,” Chummy pipes up in the silence. Shelagh catches her eye in the mirror and breaks into a wide smile.

“Do you really think so?” she asks, turning around to face her friends. The four of them are nodding eagerly.

“Yes, absolutely,” Jenny agrees.

“Doctor will drop dead at the altar when he sees you,” Trixie adds, causing them all to laugh.

“I’d rather he live until the vows,” Shelagh jokes, turning her face to catch her reflexion again. In the mirror, she sees Cynthia stand and walk over.

“I feel like a bride,” she confesses to the other woman. The brunette smiles and squeezes her hands.

“Then I think you’ve found your dress,” she tells her and Shelagh has to agree with her. This is it, this is the dress she wants to get married in.

They wait until Timothy is able to walk again. Steady steps that may take him some time to walk down the aisle, but he will get there. Shelagh knows how important it is to him, to be a part of their wedding, and she would not dream of taking that away from him. He is such a good boy, has been such a trooper. Him regaining the ability to walk, albeit with braces, seems like a miracle, and every night she thanks the Lord that He has watched over the boy and granted them more years with him. It is wonderful to sit at the table and talk about the progress they are making with the planning, to have someone eager to listen and so openly happy about every small step that gets accomplished. She enjoys those evenings, when Patrick is held up with a patient and she is at the house, with Tim, and they have dinner together and just talk. It is so easy to make conversation with him, feels so natural to her.

The church is packed on the day of their wedding. Shelagh never thought that so many people would turn up. She never dreamed of inviting so many, either, but Poplar’s residents have a way of injecting themselves into the lives of the people that help them, that mean something to them. She recognizes a lot of mothers and their families in the pews and feels proud, all of a sudden.

Still, her knees are weak as she slowly makes her way down the aisle by herself. Sister Julienne is right. She belongs to no one but herself. It was a long journey for her to figure that out, to find her path back from Sister Bernadette to Shelagh Mannion. From a life governed by so many rules to one where she had to make up her own set of rules to life by.

And now, Shelagh Mannion is about to become Shelagh Turner. And she could not be any happier about it.

 

_fin._

 


End file.
